Fumbling in the dark for some spare change, or what else, you brush against a warm, metallic object, smooth to the touch.
In your bag, too, which was odd as you keep a rather tight ship, as it were.
The metal feels like it belongs, yet no use comes to mind. You weren't one for sentimentalities, knickknacks, souvenirs. Use or lose, worth or dearth.
Yet it fits, it feels like you want it to, without having any benchmark or comparison it answers its role splendidly, like a refreshment from an impossibly-pure blue sea to a parched skin.
Like it keeps coming close to scratching an itch, or from satisfying your endless routine of fidgeting, whose perfection is always found in that extra one more step that only those with the obsession know.
You keep it in the bag, tucked away in its new nook, a new wealth of knowledge now yours, like a surprise investment you'd forgotten about. Looking would lessen its power, you know, so of course it remains out of view.
There aren't words to describe to others, you also know, or if there were they'd come out battered and grimy. Some things bloom better when close to the chest.